Coates is not a journalist so much
as a composer—one who uses words
the way birdsong is used by singing birds:
to thrill, trill, call, to warn, to touch
men’s rambling forest hearts, their souls as such—
he gathers grazing human flocks and herds
them—normies, magazine subscribers, nerds,
and independent voters. What a crutch,
to merely be persuasive, for to write
engagingly is just a shibboleth:
convincing those who don’t believe to think
anew is neither fair nor right; the white
blank page is not the place to argue death
and life. Just nod and know. Just nudge and wink.